Perfect
by Sing-Sorrow
Summary: A look into Akashi's broken mind with an odd longing for the ace, who feels just as Akashi hopes he wouldn't.


Title: Perfect  
Author: Sing_Sorrow / deeper-cut  
Pairings: Akashi X Aomine  
Characters: Akashi, Aomine, Akashi's Father, Akashi's Mother,  
Ratings: M  
Warnings: Gore (suggestive), Death, Harm, Crime  
Genre: Dark, Angst, Romance, Crime, Death, Drama, High School, Horror, Mystery, Suspense, Tragedy

Summary: A look into Akashi's broken mind with an odd longing for the ace, who feels just as Akashi hopes he wouldn't.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this story, living (or passed) human beings or fictional characters. These events never happened, according to history or as the original author intended them. This is a work of fiction and is not intended to offend. For entertainment purposes only. Thanks.

Author's Notes: I wanted to make a piece where Akashi could be quite deranged, so this is kinda how this emerged. However, you know you've listened waaay too much to the Old Boy soundtracks when...Originally this work could sync to the songs, as I only wrote the pieces to a different song, but with the length of the work that was soon over. I didn't mean to get so carried away, and so the plot is not as strong as I would like. This was a spur of the moment work, and was written before Chapter 264 was released in the manga. I hope you enjoy.

As always, constructive criticism is more than welcome! Reviews are always appreciated and if you enjoyed it, feel free to drop me a comment! :) I don't bite. ;) Also, I don't write many different pairings all the time. If you have any suggestions/request, drop me a line for that too! :)

* * *

Perfection.

It is all Akashi Seijuro knows. It is all he was taught. All he was trained for. Perfection was what he was brought up with, it was the very air he breathed. It was his purpose. It was something that his teammates at Teiko Middle School would never understand. He was his father's vision of perfection made flesh.

You open your red eyes. For as long as you can recall, perfection was the ultimate goal. The goal that you would one day achieve. '_Be prepared for anything'_, was what his father taught him, what his father had engrained into him as a child, and that meant to strive for perfection; that meant to have no flaws. To have no weakness, no vulnerability. To become unstoppable, undefeatable. To be triumphant, successful, inevitable. To become the very embodiment of being 'ever victorious'.

'It's quarter to four. You reach out and shut off the alarm. Your arm gets gooseflesh from the chilly air this early in the morning, but you ignore it. The cold won't stop you.

You get up and begin your daily tasks; making your bed, brushing your teeth. You take a quick shower, making sure to use the vinegar and baking soda rinse in your vivid, crimson hair; as shampoo would damage your sensitive, pale skin. You step out of the bath tub, and get yourself dressed in your crisp, school uniform: black slacks, blue shirt, and white blazer. You make your way to the kitchen and have your breakfast. It is now five o'clock in the morning, and you are on your way to school.

You spend the next hour and a half working out in the gym. Your abdomen is sore but you force yourself to keep moving, pulling yourself up with your core muscles on the vertical sit up bench. You exhale heavily with each exercise. You've reached two-hundred forty-seven; forty-eight; nine. You pull yourself up with your core and exhale, staying up and breathing heavily. You get off the bench and wipe your forehead on your towel. _'Drink some water'_ and you do, feeling the warm liquid cool off your mouth, your throat.

Your rest time is up. You sit at the lateral pull-down bar. Only another rep of eighty of these. You begin. Your breath is even, steady, and stable. You pull the bar down and keep your back straight, enjoying the pull of your muscles in your arms and shoulders. You inhale, allowing the bar to rise up again. It isn't long now. You count to yourself under your breath, visualizing the muscles beneath the flesh. You watch the light glint off the titanium bar and the black cord pull the weight set to one hundred. The bar is balanced as you allow it to rise one final time, the eightieth time, and stand to relieve you back. You take a sip of you water, _'refreshing'_, and note the time. _'You're on schedule'_, and you set off on your run to cool down. You're training for perfect.

You're six years old. Standing in the hallway of your father's workplace in the basement of your home, you watch him in silence as he works. Where you stand, it isn't warm. It isn't cozy. It resembles nothing of the rest of the house. It is through the room housing all the stainless steel beds, tray, and racks; past the room with the large freezer divided into drawers. This room's appearance is much more delicate; catered to more comfort and style. Fine, delicate chairs with their padded seats, flowers surrounding every surface, and a large table in the center of the room. It is the entrance to the morgue. A faint cold is tickling your exposed skin, but you stand and watch anyways, hoping he wouldn't notice you're there.

_'Come closer, Akashi'_, your father's back is to you as he addresses you. You slowly step closer, the smell of preservatives heavy in the air. You wonder faintly how your father is not wearing a mask, then you wonder if he should. He motioned for you to come closer with a crooked finger; his back is still to you, not taking his eyes off his work.

You obey his actions. You're now in sight to see the body, lying so still on the gurney. She's a young woman: dark hair, fine features. Her thin lips were painted a plum purple. A crisp white sheet covered her naked body from view. He was finished conducting the autopsy. She had been sewn back together. He was now busy preparing the body for the family viewing, and it would be off to the funeral home in a casket after that. You feel sorrow, recalling mother. She hadn't been so fortunate to remain in one piece for her family to view. You wonder if father had to reattach this woman back together, as he had to mother.

'_She was stabbed by her husband,'_ He tells you. _'He had wanted his first child a son.'_

He smiles down at you, pride in his first son, his only child. You smile back at him, a dangerous glint appearing in your scarlet eyes; your diseased eyes, your imperfection. You reach out and take her hand, firmly holding the corpse's in your own, and emotionally look up to your father.

"She's at peace now, father."

Your day is a blur, a blur of mundane things that are too far below you. School classes bore you, and you don't want to see anyone today on your team. They're dragging their feet in practice, not pushing their abilities. You're on the train now, heading towards the heart of the city; speeding with a collection of the rest of your city's population to your final destination. You get rude stares, funny looks; a child points you out and his mother walks him away. It's because of your eyes, your hair, your skin. You're sick.

At your stop, you exit the train and spit upon the ground. It isn't classy. It isn't perfect. But you hate the reminder. Who are they to judge you? They don't have to stick themselves with needles every morning and night. Is a mirror not a big enough reminder? A part of you wishes that Atsushi or Daiki had taken the train down with you so that you could avoid their stares, their jeers. You'd have another to focus on, or at least someone who you know would be all too willing to take the blame for your violence. Your finger traces the edge of a penknife in your pocket; you know it's too small to do the damage you want. Instead, you walk briskly off the train at your stop. You know you should be more careful; you rely too much on the blades you adore: your scissors, and scalpels, tweezers, and compasses. Blades enamor you, but more so when they have a pair.

You catch your reflection in the windows of the surrounding buildings. You look better than half the businessmen in this area: your grey suit and white shirt giving you an edgy, modern look. You probably know more than half of what they know too. You retrieve a pair of narrow, jet black sunglasses from your pocket and adorn them, shading your glare from the public. You then reach up and run your fingers through your red, red hair, letting it spike naturally as if falls, and smirk. You receive another funny look for laughing on your own, but the thought makes you happy. _'Don't regard them.'_ and you don't. You continue on your way, to perfection.

You enter the familiar space in your mind and the feeling of comfort envelopes you. You go to the freezer and pull open the drawer with the name that matched the one on the note left for you. Wheeling over a gurney, you securely transfer the body from the freezer to the awaiting counter. You have all your equipment ready, and you smile to yourself. You look down at the male lying on the metal table, examining him with your eyes. You get the lab camera and check the battery and memory before taking several pictures of the knife wound in his side. Satisfied, you thread a needle with fine, silky thread and begin to stitch the wound closed. A flawless cover. You image the pale chest you begin to cut into as Daiki's smooth, caramel coloured flesh. You dab away the blood with a white cloth and slowly begin to pin back the flesh. The odor of death drifts off the body but you aren't uncomfortable around it anymore. This is your work, and you aren't uneasy by the stench of it, as you once were.

You check the note, inquiring for the cause of death via a punctured lung. You begin to part the flesh and muscle, this body having more fat and less muscle than Daiki would. You poke around inside, using several tools to move organs slightly and remove others that were addressed to be donated. You examine each organ, before you take them and immediately clean them, not allowing them time to become contaminated. You have jars already prepared to store them, and once cleaned, you preserve them inside. You note the heart; the muscle being average. _'Daiki's heart would have more muscle,'_ and you begin to store it, unsatisfied.

The lungs were another organ checked off for donation. You find the right side still available. The left had shriveled and gathered into the upper section of the chest cavity. You decide to leave the left lung as it is, and instead replace your bloodied latex gloves with clean ones. You take pictures of the lungs in contradiction of each other and then a zoomed shot of the left side chest cavity. Under further examination, you take another picture of the left lung to store an image of a matching wound to where the knife would have hit the lung prior to the puncture. Once done, you place the camera down and continue your 'surgery'.

Pleased with yourself and having completed the tasks requested of you, you begin to restore the body to its original condition, minus the donations. You already had prepped three needles with the fine thread and begin stitching the body back together carefully. Your seams are fine and barely visible. They hold the skin together without any blemishes and leave no raised flesh. _'A shame,'_ you think to yourself _'that this stitch is for a person that will not be able to note the fine handship.'_ You lick your lips and continue your work; washing this body and preparing it for storage.

You sit up startled and wipe the sleep from your eyes. You wonder how it would be to stitch Daiki closed? Would it hurt to prepare Daiki for burial, or cremation? How would he pass away? What condition would his body be in at his time of death? Would you still be in contact with Daiki when he passes away? Would he be young, at the prime of his career? Would it be numb to prepare Daiki for death, or would you feel the absence of emotion that you felt for mother? You bite your lip. You'll find out one day.

Daiki picked up the basketball and shot it into the cart across the gym. You watched him with your red eyes, covered by the dark, narrow sunglasses. You didn't want him to see the colour; you didn't want him to see the mistake, the fault. Oh, he had seen them before. By this time, everyone at Teiko Middle School had seen the mysterious basketball captain's crimson eyes. But you didn't want to Daiki to see them, not today. Not after that dream.

The gym was empty except for Daiki, Tetsuya and yourself. Tetsuya was just finishing sweeping the floor while Daiki gathered the last of the equipment. Atsushi, being the tallest, had already stowed away the hoops so the backboards rested against the walls or ceiling respectively. You observed, making sure the gym was, as you promised the teachers, clean for the morning classes.

Tetsuya shook the broom outside and then carried it across the gym, exiting to place it into the janitors closet. You knew he wouldn't be returning, and he had taken his bag with him. Daiki stood at half-court, shooting the last few balls into the cart from a ways away, attempting to make cleaning the gym fun. He stopped, his eyes reaching your face, and he lowered the ball. Spinning it between his fingers, he hesitated on what to say.

"Akashi," he called out.

You turn your face to make sure he sees you acknowledge him, but do not remove the shades.

"Uhh," his blue eyes shifted from your face to the floor and back.

You step towards him, you don't know why. _'Don't approach him.'_ But you do.

He watches you, his eyes sparkle as you approach. You stay a foot away from him, having to look up to meet his eyes, (and hating it). _'When he's on the gurney, you won't have to look up anymore.'_ You feel as if you got punched in the gut. You try to keep your voice unwavering when you speak,

"Yes, Daiki?"

He shifted the basketball to one hand and reached out to your face. You weren't sure what he was doing until he took the sunglasses from you.

"Daiki!" you protest.

"Akashi," he tone of voice is gentle and surprises you into silence. "Why are you hiding your beautiful eyes?"

You open your mouth but have no words to say. How could he have just called your mutation "beautiful"? Feelings you don't recognize are brewing in your mind, coursing through your body. You feel sick, angry, scared; but none of these feelings make any sense to you. He's just your ace, isn't he?

He folded the legs of the glasses with his thumb, so that the lenses rested against his knuckles, and cradled the side of your face in his palm.

"Akashi," he breathed slowly.

You stare at him, confused. You try to create a structured sentence. "Daiki," you whisper.

But he doesn't let you finish. The basketball drops from his hand, hitting the ground slowly and leaving an echo ringing in your mind, as he wraps his arms around you and presses his lips against yours. He takes advantage of his height over you and holds you to his chest, his lips moving over yours. You gasp, shocked from his actions, but cannot pull away. Unsure, you let him kiss you, your hand resting on your the handle of your scissors inside your shorts pocket. You don't draw it, you don't want to hurt him. You _want_ him to pull you closer.

You're eight years old. You're father is humming as he conducts his task. From your seat on the floor, you cannot see what he is doing exactly. Despite the house containing many rooms for you to be, the emptiness of it drove you insane at times, and you preferred to stay close to your father. At times, you felt like you were the only two in the world together, and you hated to admit that this thought made you smile. Despite your mother's unfortunate passing, you were glad she never had been given the time to go through with her second pregnancy. You valued the time you spent together with your father, and more often than not, you had to you force yourself to avert your gaze off him. Take your eyes off his back, off his sculpted, broad shoulders; and focus on the study material he left for you: he hadn't enrolled you in a school yet. This worksheet was on the human muscle system. You had filled in all the names and were working on recording all their functions in accordance to their areas.

He turned and looked down at you, smiling. _"Ah, my boy. Come, come here and look. Let me help you with your studies."_

You look up at the sound of his voice and meet his dark eyes. You always liked his eyes; they held warmth and sparkled with a knowledge you felt would go on endlessly. You stand and come to his side. He places his hands under your arms and stands you on a stool to see the high tabletop better. On it lay a human arm, the skin stripped back to the area where the arm should have connected with a shoulder, but was just a blunt cutoff. You could see the head of the humerus bone poking out of the exposed muscles and the tendons just cutting off hanging limply on the steel tray.

_"The sixth-year medical students at the university need one for their practicum." _ he explains. _"See here, how well the muscles move the body."_

He took the hand of the arm and raised it, the bicep in the arm condensing to aid the raise of the hand.

_"See? See how natural this is? Even in death our limbs function well."_

He sounded excited as he spoke and you watch the light sparkle in his eyes. Seeing his hand in the corpse's triggered a memory in your mind. Suddenly you recall your parents dressed in their formal kimonos, holding hands in the entrance hall and slow dancing in a waltz. You can't recall if there was any music being played, or even if there was any reason for them to be dressed up; just that they danced on the doorway of death, just before the door to the basement; and you stood and watched, captivated in fascination and rage. You admired the love that surrounded them, but you hated their courtship, as it threatened your solitude. '_That was a problem easily fixed.'_ and you smile.

You reach out and press your palm against his face, trying to convey how natural this felt, this closeness you desired of him. He turns and looks at you. He smiles. It warms your heart to see him smile. Especially since mother passed away. When he turns away, you pick up the hand of the corpse. You lift it and watch as the muscles squeeze together and then as they slowly stretch as you let the hand fall. You lift and drop the arm several times, your eyes narrowing as you watch the muscles. The muscles weren't red or tight anymore. There was a hole forming as the arm decayed naturally. You're fascinated by the bicep, pulling the arm up, and the tricep allowing it to extent back.

You feel a warm hand touch your head and you turn and look up at your father. He had been observing you as you studied.

_"You will be perfect, one day, Akashi."_

You smile at him and he smiles down at you. You wish you were taller. He turns and begins to take his tray of equipment to the sink. You stare back at the arm and have the sudden desire to crush it, but you know it would upset your father to have to skin another all over again. And he would be disappointed that you weren't perfect.

"Father," you call, your voice light and airy.

_"Yes, my son?"_

"Why is the heart the symbol of love?"

Your father turned the water off and wiped his hands on a towel, coming to kneel before you.

_"I don't know exactly, Akashi. We feel love in our hearts."_

You frown, your eyebrows knitting together in frustration.

_"Akashi," _he held your shoulders. _"Why do you ask me this question?"_

You stare into his eyes. _"Because the heart pumps blood through our bodies, father. Blood gives our limbs oxygen and takes the carbon dioxide out to the lungs to be filtered out. It doesn't give us love."_

His eyes lost their sparkle for a moment, but then he smiled. _"Akashi,"_

But then the phone rang.

_"I'll be right back."_

But as always when the phone rang, he had to run out to the hospital for a few hours again, and you were left to stay in your room in this empty house. Alone.

You stare at the papers in your hands, leafing through them and trying not to scatter your pile. Page after page is about members of your team, the first string members in particular. You jot notes down the margins, scratching down your observations from this week's fitness test. Several had stayed the same, a small few performed lesser than before, but for the most part many had improved in some way. As always, you notice Daiki's marks far exceeded the rest of the members for strength, speed, and handling. You bite your lip and chew on it slight, wondering what to do with him? He grew another inch as well. And yet, his muscle was growing in proportion with his frame. You scowl and allow all the sheets to fall together into one pile.

You hear his rowdy laughter, not far off, and freeze. The last time you had seen him, things ended complicated and you didn't want him to invade your notes and see just how spectacularly he is excelling. But just as you bend down to pick up your book bag, he strolls around the corner, his arm high above his head in a nonchalant, farewell wave to no doubt Ryouta or Tetsuya.

"Captain!" He exclaimed upon noticing you standing there, bag strap on your shoulder. His greeting seemed like one of true surprise. Apparently _he _wasn't feeling awkward about the last farewell you had after practice two days ago.

Just as you predicted, he saunters over and dumps his bag from his shoulder to the floor, grabbing the papers from your hands. You make to protest and reach for them, but he lifts them over his head and stares down at you, making a point to seem uninterested in your struggle to reach them while obviously enjoying watching you.

You aren't going to entertain him. You cease your struggle and give in; he was stubborn sometimes but you let it slide considering the stats are on himself that he's interested in.

He cautiously begins to lower the papers but keeps his guard up before accepting that you won't try to pull a fast move over him. He grins in his victory over you, and you couldn't help but smile at his childish manner. His deep blue eyes scan over the first page and he eagerly flips the pages over his fingers holding the pages together at the top. It didn't take him long to hand the pages back to you, smirking from ear to ear.

"I did it again, Akashi!"

"Yes. You did, Daiki."

You couldn't help but smile at him, as you watch his happiness. The awkward encounter had all but erased from your mind as you watched him, taking your eyes away only to clip the papers together. You half expected him to do a silly, little happy-dance, but you know him too well to do that. He was into more serious, and should you say provocative, dances.

He began to wiggle his waist, his muscles moving in a wave as he twists his wrist, blowing off a small burst of energy in his favorite dance. You watch him, struggling to keep a straight face but finding yourself grinning, eyes wide as you drink in the sight of him acting foolishly.

He stares at you and grabs your hands, causing you to drop your papers and book bag.

"C'mon, Captain! Let's dance!"

Laughter tumbles from your lips and he stops moving and stares at you in shock. Feigning mock terror, he steps back and holds a tanned hand to his mouth.

"He laughs?!" he exclaimed.

Despite the comment being a jab at you, you laugh anyways and he takes your hands again.

"Dance with me!" he grins, knowing that this would embarrass you and thus humour him.

"Come now, Daiki. We're in public!"

"You're a rich boy, Akashi! Surely you of all people know how to dance!"

He raises his hands in the air and rocks his body back and forth, smiling.

"How much sugar did you eat? What was it, chocolate milk? You had chocolate milk with Atsushi again, didn't you?"

He doesn't deny your prodding so you take it to be true. He simply continues dancing on his own and when he notices you don't join him, he reached out and took your hands once more.

"Come on, rich boy! What do you know: the waltz?"

He starts directing you with his feet, forcing you to step back, then forwards. A vivid memory of your parents dancing burns your mind. _'He knows!'_ Impossible!

Your steps falter. He notices.

"Captain?"

His mask slips; the humour gone from his features, concern settling in. _'He cares!'_ But you can't find it inside yourself to believe him.

You force a smile and his eyes narrow, but he catches your drift. His lips turn up in an unconvinced smile and he mocks you once more: "Forgetting the steps, rich boy?"

You purposely step on his foot, as hard as you could. He immediately jumps away from you, hopping on one foot. You grab his tie and pull him closer to you, force him to bend down to stare into his eyes. He scowls.

"Don't, ever, call me 'rich boy' again. Got it?"

You shove him away and he smirks at you, sticking out his tongue.

"Geeze, Akashi. For a little guy, you certainly-" but he stopped talking noting the glint in your eyes.

He picks up your bag for you, an unconscious symbol that your chance meeting was over. You recall the kiss in the gym and feel awkward; the air felt the same and you suddenly have an overwhelming desire to taste him and see if he tasted of the chocolate milk he drank earlier.

He places the strap on your shoulder and you take the bag, holding it and the papers in your hands. Daiki's features are different, concerned and analytical. In rare moments like this, Shintarou would say you could see the Virgo in Daiki: observant, precise, fussy, and (at times) distant. His clear, crystal gaze startled you into silence, and you numbly felt yourself watch him just as closely as he watched you. His eyes shone with admiration and his hands was warm: one on your shoulder, the other over your own hand. You decide it was time to leave before the tension broke to allow something new to invade.

He bent down and pressed his lips to the top of your head. His words were a ghostly whisper in your ear, his recently deepened voice giving you chills as you walked away.

"Have a sweet night, Akashi-san."

You're thirteen years old. You've just come home from practice, and stopped to change your shoes when you entered the house. You head to your room, drop off your schoolbag and gym bag and change into your comfortable robes, before heading downstairs to find your father.

You find him, almost exactly where you left him, in the lab. He had pulled up a chair and was seated beside a small, deep, rectangular box made, no doubt, of surgical steel. You approach him, the swish of the bottom of your robe attracting his attention and he looks up to smirk at you. To your surprise, a small bottle of nail polish remover is beside the box on the table.

"How was your day, Akashi?" He asks you.

You stare blankly at what is on the table in front of him. You answer him with "What is that?"

He sighs and looks down at his work. "Come closer."

You walk over, amazed that there was no pungent scent in the air, no chemical aroma. What is before you is the box. The box was closed and you figured he was storing something inside it. Upon the lid were the first three fingers of a human hand, cut off at the second knuckle. And presumably female fingers at that. Your father had been removing the red nail polish from them.

He picked up a finger with a pair of blunted tweezers, holding the severed end upwards just slightly enough for you to see the nerve, vessels, and small amount of muscle tissue inside. It reminded you of the way spaghetti looked after Atsushi's cat threw it up.

"Do you have to reattach them?"

"You guessed it." Your father sighed. "I just finished checking the fingers to see if they have any chance at being reattached. Fortunately for her, they do." he smiled. "So I cleaned them up as best I could, removed the polish, and sterilized them. All that's left to do is reattach them in a few hours."

"Oh."

It was all you could think of to say.

It was true, normally at this time in life many children would have grown bored of their parents' work and begun to show attitude and become difficult to manage. Fortunately for Mr. Seijuro, Akashi's interest in his work only grew, and he became quite passionate and aware of his own body as well. He had taken to the sport of basketball like a duck in water, and while they did not see eye to eye on the matter of the team and his studies, it hadn't proved to be as difficult as their only other quarrel.

Your father wrapped an arm around your waist, careful to not touch your robe with his hand.

"How was your day, Akashi?" he asked once more.

"What time are you going to the hospital to do this microsurgery?"

"Around seven thirty."

He sensed his son wouldn't give him a direct answer and instead unwound his arm from your waist. He changed his gloves and poured some ice water into a small, metal bowl and dipped some gauze into it. Layering the gauze so that the wettest layer was on the outside, he carefully wrapped each finger individually and placed them inside a sealed, plastic medical bag. He placed the bag inside another, thinner bag with the resealing end on the opposite side, and placed the bag on the water, before shutting the lid and latching the box closed. He then placed it beside the fridge on a high shelf.

"What do you think?" he asked, holding up a bright red bottle of nail polish.

"What about it?" you question.

"I'm going to repaint the nails for her when I'm done the surgery."

You smirk. _'How considerate of you.'_

He returned to his seat and leaned back in his chair. "So how was your day Akashi?"

You decide not to torment him for an answer any longer.

"It was fine."

"Come now," he insists. "How's the team?"

"Brilliant." You grin, recalling the tall, tan boy with the navy hair. Having entered at 175 centimeters, his dunk was flawless. His maneuvers were tactical yet impulsive, and he topped the team in his speed as well; setting the highest score in the beep test at 11:3. And the best part was he still had many more years to grow.

Your father watches you fade into the memory of the practice and replies with a simple "uh-huh."

You give your head a small shake. "The ace is truly amazing! We had a practice game today, and he was forced to play with only one other person to create a fair game."

That caught your father's attention. He grinned. "You will lead them to a flawless victory, Akashi."

You turned to go to your room. "I have some reading I would like to get done before class tomorrow, father. And I have an early morning – I need to be at the gym for a workout by seven – so I'm turning in early. Good night."

"I'll come by to say good bye before I leave, son. And do watch your studies."

You heave a sigh, you knew he wouldn't let you slide talking about just sports. You don't respond but you know he knows you heard him. You muse on how they would reattach living fingers on a person after they had been cut off and consider how it may be similar to worms multiplying after you cut them in half. You would have to ask your father for clarification for later, but you wanted to finish tomorrow's chapter before bed tonight. As well as read at last another chapter in your leisure novel, Beowulf.

You reach up and tear the latest month away from the calendar, watching as it floats to the recycle bin placed at the base of the wall. The seasons were changing. Christmas would be creeping up on you soon, notably faster than last year, or the year before that. You vaguely consider if you should buy your teammates gifts? After all, this year would be your last as their Captain. _'It can wait. You've still got time before you start planning your holiday.'_

You relax a bit, but you don't stop staring at the calendar. You would move on to Rakuzan High, the perfect high school for you to graduate from. You would also be moving south to Kyoto. Rumor was Atsushi said he'd be moving for school too, heading north for Akita.

A part of you couldn't wait to verse your teammates, Your miracles, and see if any could rise themselves to overcome their mentor. _'But you don't really wish that, do you?'_ You shake your head.

The door opens behind you and someone else enters the basketball club room. You turn your face away from the wall, your arm still draped around your knee as you sat by the table to play your game of shogi. You hope for a second it wouldn't be Shintarou: you don't want to play against him right this moment – victory was not something you wanted to focus on just now. You'd need that for the upcoming games: the nationals weren't over just yet.

They shuffled over and pulled out the chair to your right. Your eyes take note of their movement and you watch Daiki sit down, slouching slightly as he struggled to fit his body, well over six feet, under the middle school desk. A moment or so after he stops trying and just angles his chair so that it brought him as close to you as the desk would allow without hitting his knees on the tabletop.

"Daiki?"

He tilted his head back and his eyes rolled to gaze at you. You wonder why he made such an effort to sit down.

"Aomine." he corrected you.

You glared, the atmosphere tasting foreign once more. He turned his face forwards and tilted the chair onto its back legs, his arm perched on the top of your backrest. You knew this wasn't going to be the typical association you usually have with your obscene and rebellious power forward.

"What is it, Daiki?"

"Aomine."

"Whatever."

"My name is Aomine. You can call me Aomine." Emphasis on the 'you'.

"Why can't I just call you Daiki?"

"Because we're close, Captain."

"You're my Ace."

"We kissed." He smirked.

You jump up and he drops the chair onto all fours to avoid falling backwards from your sudden movement. You stare at him, fuming, but saying nothing. You couldn't deny what happened. Yet you couldn't stand just how easily he stated it.

"What do you want, Daiki?"

"First off, you to call me Aomine."

He crossed his arms at the same moment you crossed yours. You glared, he pouted.

"Why are you being so difficult?"

"It's just my name. Why can't you just say my name?"

You glare and feel yourself losing ground, and patience. He leaned forwards, knowing all too well he was provoking you.

"Come on, say it with me then. A-O-Mine."

You resist punching him in the jaw.

"If you want to hit me, don't hold back."

He leaned back in his chair and you were tempted for a second to take him up on that offer. But you needed him in perfect condition for your games, and giving him a broken jaw wouldn't help Teiko win the nationals for the third time in a row.

"Come on, Akashi. What do you want me to say? We kissed, and you expect me to walk away like it was nothing? I know it's awkward to be around me now, but you don't have to be angry. Unless," and he lowered his eyes as a sudden thought came to him. "Unless it was nothing to you, I suppose."

This time you actually do hit him. You force yourself to keep your hand straight and slapped the back of his head with fair force. He jolted up and rubbed his head but didn't complain.

"Don't expect me to think nothing of that."

"I hoped not. Normally you're so easy for me to read. I doubted such a perfect rich boy would have no feelings in, well...I won't say it again."

Perfect.

There was that word again. Despite your irritation, you were thankful that Daiki didn't repeat his statement. You feel the muscles in your cheek unclench enough for you to stop scowling.

"Daiki,"

"Aomine."

You give up: 'let him correct me all he wants.' You exhale heavily, a sign of annoyance, and continue as if there had been no interruption.

"Why do you say that?"

"Akashi. You aren't blind." He stood up and came to stand very close to you, enough so that you could feel him gazing down on you. "You show your emotions easily enough. It's how you intimidate people; it's how you convey your authority. I've been around you enough to learn your movements; it's made you predictable to me: you react only so many ways. And unless a fancy, rich boy like yourself would sleaze around, I think it's fair to say that I took your first kiss and you would have feelings about it. In fact, I doubt you told your father yet."

You shake your head slightly. "I don't understand." you finally admit, shaking your head. "What does any of this matter to you? Is it blackmail, Daiki? Are you trying to blackmail me?"

He sighs heavily and you feel him moving away. _'He's irritated.'_ You take that as a warning and subconsciously your guards build up. Thoughts begin chasing around in your mind: if he fights you, would you hit him? In power you were matched, though he had size on his side. You felt the blade, heavy in your pocket, burning against your thigh. Today, it was a compass; sharp and pointy, with tips that would pierce through flesh with ease.

_'Can you bring yourself to use it?_

_'That's only if need be._

_'You said that once before._

_'I had nothing to do with that._

_'I wasn't awake back then._

_'I wasn't on my own!_

_'So, did a need arise?_

_'Would you use it then?_

_'Would you like me to?_

_'So you have experience, then?_

_'Not by Daiki._

_'Would you hurt him?_

_'I promise I'll make it quick.'_

Akashi felt his fingers moving into his pocket, felt the cool blades of the compass against his fingertips. Daiki's back was to him, his breathing heavy. He would bleed out quickly if he struck him in the neck, and it would cause enough shock that he wouldn't feel much pain. Akashi pulled the compass out of his pocket.

"Wait!"

You feel a sudden weakening: as if your legs could no longer support themselves and the room spinning. It isn't notice by you that your sudden outburst has stopped Daiki in his answer that you were paying no attention to, or that you began laughing hysterically immediately afterwards.

You're five years old. You're in your room. You were just reading a book, a nice fantasy at which you've come to the epic battle. But you felt a stir in the air. You weren't alone anymore.

"Impossible." you whisper to yourself. You father has taken your mother out to dinner. The adult in charge of 'checking in on you' was in the living room, far from your bedroom.

But you know you aren't alone. And you've felt this presence before. Stubborn as always, Akashi stood up from his reading and glanced around.

A stack of papers sudden swept themselves off the desk to young Akashi's right. He turned, trying to catch a glimpse of his visitor, but they remained hidden. He narrowed his red, red eyes and turned to face behind him. Akashi doesn't care that he's lost his page in his book. He's distracted by the scattered paper.

Intrigued, Akashi approached the desk and looked at the papers as he stepped on them. They were his school work on the mind: elementary aged papers that detailed the makeup of the mind and various drawings of the skull. Human biology interested Akashi so, and his father found his firstborn son keen on the matter because of his influence, and thus allowed him to study the subject against his mother's will.

"He's just a boy, he's too young to learn all this." she would say.

"He's interested in it, that is all that matters." was his father's response.

Akashi picked up a worksheet with a large human face sketched onto it. The left side of the face had been drawn with the flesh peeled back; exposing the skull and muscle underneath. The right side of the face had been left untouched. Yet somehow the paper was different. There was a foreign feel to it.

Akashi dropped the paper onto the desk with a gasp. When he had placed the paper on the desk last time, the paper had no colour. As Akashi looked down on it, the left eye stared back up at him highlighted in a vibrant yellow.

Akashi turned and glared around his room. His head felt like exploding. He found himself laughing hysterically, despite nothing being funny about the picture at all.

Akashi turned to look for his highlighter, laughing all the while. He pulled open the drawer where he kept all his utensils to find his highlighter missing. But something else inside the drawer he caught his eye. It was a pair of scissors.

He picked up the scissors, awed into silence by them, and snipped the air with them once. Twice. He coughed up another laugh, a small deep chuckle. He snipped the air and laughed again. The blade danced together so _perfectly_, in synchronization with each other. Together, the blades destroyed everything in their path, _perfectly_.

You take the scissors back to the place you were seated and snip the blades together slowly, watching with immense interest in the dependence of their work. You begin cutting paper, losing yourself in your work. You don't realize how much time has passed, or that anyone had knocked your door in the first place.

"Akashi!"

Your gaze turns to find your mother standing in front of you.

"Akashi, what are you doing?"

You stare at her as if she's gone mad. There was nothing wrong with making paper dolls. But then you notice her glancing around your room and your eyes follow hers. Your room is a mess, with much of your books pulled apart; the pages scattered everywhere.

"Akashi, what have you done?"

You continue to stare at her, a smile forming on your lips. _'You hate her.'_ and you do.

She comes in and demands you to stand.

But Akashi isn't the type to take orders, not anymore. Akashi is absolute. And he had discovered something in his time alone in his room. Something that even his precious, caring father didn't know about him.

Akashi stared at his mother then, defiant in his posture. His red eyes sparkled and she rolled her eyes at his freakish looks, rejection of her not-perfect son displayed on face. She bent down and tried to take the scissors out of his hand.

"Ow."

She stepped back from him and her hand flew up to cradle her stomach.

A change came over Akashi then, as he sat watching his mother: his caring, loving mother. He stood, interested, in what was just exposed to him: his mother was pregnant again.

"You're replacing me."

Her brown eyes flashed as she straightened up. "What did you just say, Akashi?"

"You're replacing me."

The scissors were held in his fist now, his hand curled around the both the handles. There was a glint of danger in his eyes, a look of determination mixed with...something she couldn't quite place exactly.

"You wish to replace me." he stammered, trying the words together on his tongue. "You don't think I'm perfect."

Fear grew in his mother's eyes, fear of her son speaking the truth. And the consequences of that truth.

Tears welled in Akashi's eyes as he tasted from the cup of bitter truth. Tears that betrayed his hidden adoration for her. He seemed hurt, but it didn't quite make sense why. His tears broke free and fell, angelically, down his pale face. His eyes narrowed in response and he glared at her, forcing his voice to remain even.

"You will just have to go then."

His father was hysteric when he saw the body on the ground. Well, both bodies to be exact. Despite the fetus not having a name, Akashi had wanted to see if his potential sibling would outshine him in his looks, but not having fully formed yet, he was content with his discover that it hadn't.

He was stringing up his paper dolls; balled up sheets of paper tied with another overtop it to form a head and a body, similar looking to paper-ghosts, to the sill of his window and singing softly to himself:

"_Teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu_  
_Do make tomorrow a sunny day_  
_Like the sky in a dream sometime_  
_If it's sunny I'll give you a golden bell_

_Teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu_  
_Do make tomorrow a sunny day_  
_If you make my wish come true_  
_We'll drink lots of sweet sake_

_Teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu_  
_Do make tomorrow a sunny day_  
_but if it's cloudy and I find you crying_  
_Then I shall snip your head off"_

Akashi's father had stopped in the doorway, falling to his knees and taking in the bloody scene before him. He watched his son, seemingly innocent, stringing up his dolls. And...

His throat burned with the sudden acidic discharge surging upwards. Beside all his dolls, Akashi was stringing up the fetus of his unborn child, dropping it by the neck out the window and singing his prayer for sunshine. The falling rain outside mixed with the blood and stained the walls a pale red. Rage filled his father with a burden intense enough to bring him to his feet. He crossed the room and ended Akashi's song with a hard strike to the face.

But cry, Akashi did not. He glared. He turned to stare at his father, cheek turned, and a smirk broke out across his face. He laughed, and as a tear fell from his red, right eye, Akashi began hysterically laughing.

He backed away from his father, laughing all the while, as if being hit for the first time in his life was the funniest thing he'd seen. And then, he began singing:

"_Teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu_  
_Do make tomorrow a sunny day_  
_but if it's cloudy and I find you crying_  
_Then I shall snip your head off_

"Snip, snip-snip-snip, snip-snip."

And he laughed until his father's ears rang with his laughter. His father was at a loss for words.

"Akashi!" he screamed, for most of the night. "Akashi, why did you do this?!"

It wasn't until the first strokes of sunrise, when his father had scrubbed the bloodstains from the floor, transported the body to the morgue, and destroyed every inch of evidence of the murder of his wife by his son, that Akashi gave him an answer:

"If you oppose me, I will kill you. No matter who you are."

Daiki watched you closely. He was smart enough to have hushed you up as you laughed, lost in your thoughts for a moment. You stared at him, the chuckles still on your smirking lips.

"What are you thinking about?" he mused, more so to himself.

"Mother." you stutter, feeling the same sick euphoria you felt that night you stabbed her.

Daiki jumped a bit, pulling out of his muses to realize you had noticed his presence again.

"Recalling something again, Captain?"

You glare at him.

"You were doing that in the gym the other day too. You do that a lot now, y'know."

"And you notice?"

"A bit." he sheepishly smiled.

"You-" you pause a second, trying to say something that would bring back the conversation before you went drunk with excitement at the possibility of stabbing Daiki.

"You aren't angry anymore."

He smirked. "So you can read me too?"

"I am your Captain."

"Fine."

"What did you want, Daiki?"

"Aomine." he sighed heavily. "I haven't made any impact, have I?"

"I'm interested in what you are after, Daiki."

The room fell silent. You felt exhausted since your outburst, drained and tired. You wanted to sleep, or at least have some strawberry cake and tea to restore some energy; the sudden mania had fatigued you. You settled for making your way over to the couch and curling up.

Daiki smiled, watching you from his seat at the table. His eyes sparkled with a light that seemed distant to your thoughts, but they tugged at a memory all the same.

It was a while before Daiki answered your question. He followed you to the couch and sat on the low table before you.

"You."

"What about me?"

"I'm after you."

You lifted your head from the arm of the couch, sleepy and thinking of many splendid treats you know Atsushi would probably want to share with you. You heard what Daiki was saying, but your head felt too heavy to process the words.

"I want strawberry cake."

Daiki started laughing.

"I tell you that I'm interested and all you want is cake?"

You nod. Akashi the second was safely tucked away, in a haze of mania at the back of your mind, and so you decided to indulge in some down-time from his draining comments.

"Let's go get some."

Akashi stared at him. He stood up and felt in his pockets for his wallet. "Let's go."

Akashi came to his feet, a heavy sadness filling his chest and looked around for his schoolbag, which he had left on the table. Daiki slung it over his shoulder and wrapped an arm affectionately around Akashi's.

"I tell him I love him and the captain wants cake." he muses.

Akashi smile at his words, and he pulled him closer into his side to tease his captain into smiling more.

"Akashi, please. Just say it once."

"What once?" Akashi grumbled.

"My name."

"Daiki."

Aomine heaved a heavy sigh.

"Why do I even bother?" he groaned.

"Why do you?" Akashi retorted. "I thought you were into _blondes_."

A pink stain crossed Aomine's cheeks. "Not this rumor again."

"Is it not true?" Akashi chirped.

Aomine groaned. "There is a small hint of truth in it. But it got really blown out of proportion. Like I did buy some magazines. But I swear I never put those panties in his locker."

"Well, that was one rumor I never heard until now." Akashi laughed.

Aomine stared at Akashi in silent awe. There was something odd about his captain; he wasn't like anyone else. While he was swift to anger, and swifter to punish, he was also a kind, gentle being when you got him in the mood. There was something in his past, Aomine suspected, that had created this shift in his being, and he often lay awake at night wondering what would Akashi be like if he wasn't pressured so.

"Oh, there's just this darling little place that serves the best strawberry cream cake."

Akashi's voice broke Aomine from his thoughts and he found himself being pulled into a quaint little street shop, looking more faded into the elaborate glass buildings around it than, as Akashi put it, 'a darling little place'.

Settled into a small booth for two, seated across each other, Akashi sipped at his jasmine tea.

"Does it exhaust you?"

"Hmm?"

"Well, I don't know what it is that triggers it, but you react to things differently sometimes. It's almost as if you're crazy or something."

Aomine felt nervous, testing the waters before upsetting Akashi more. He seemed much calmer than normal, after his outburst, but Aomine didn't want to be the spark that would ignite anything.

Akashi sighed. "You pry and pry, don't you?"

Aomine nodded.

Akashi bent his head down, his cake untouched.

"I'll hand it to you: you are quite the observer, aren't you? Nothing seems to slip by you. No, nothing. But, you don't _know_ me, Aomine."

Aomine's mouth dropped open slightly. Suddenly Akashi seemed bigger, older. He was quiet, but his stance was different. His pose was less relaxed and his voice held a slight accent he hadn't noticed before.

He smirked, trying to keep his calm for Akashi's sake. He felt different, something had indeed changed. But he wasn't going to back down. He wasn't afraid of Akashi, like the rest of his school was. He was different from them all, and Akashi was no ghost. He was just some child, a person his own age, and Aomine wanted to know what it was about his captain that had kept him awake all these nights.

"What don't I know about you?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

Aomine paused and drummed his hands on the table for a moment. He licked his lips and stared down at his tea, orange-ginger, and looked back at Akashi.

"Tell me then. Tell me whatever it is that I don't know. Tell me your deepest secret. I'll show you that I know you."

Akashi looked up then, but his expression was unreadable.

"You want to know my secret?"

Aomine nodded.

"You will have to swear never to tell it."

Aomine nodded, entrance by the watery look Akashi's eyes held, yet they were dry and cold.

"Yeah, okay."

"Swear on your life. And you will see I don't mean this comically."

"I swear, I swear."

Akashi bent his head over his tea and wrapped his fingers around the cup. For a moment, he slowly unwrapped and wrapped his fingers around the cup, thinking. But then he smiled and began.

"I killed my mother when I was five years old."

"Wait, what?"

"I killed her. I stabbed her with a pair of surgical scissors."

Aomine felt slightly unsettled by the calm deliverance of Akashi's speech. He felt frozen amidst the truth, but a part of him felt that Akashi was only trying to get a rise out of him.

"She was going to have a second child. Akashi wasn't good enough for her. So I killed her. And I made sure the child was dead too."

The words spoken seemed to fly at Aomine too quickly. He put his hands up in an attempt to gain the floor and steer the conversation at a pace he could handle.

"Whoa, whoa. Wait. You are Akashi."

"I am."

"Why don't you tell me what you meant by 'Akashi wasn't good enough for her.'?"

A man of any other stature would have run screaming from Akashi this very moment. But Aomine Daiki was driven to see this through to the end. Instead of feeling sick with realization, he felt sorrow for Akashi. He couldn't fathom the idea of murder, but with Akashi behind it, there had to be a reason.

Aomine gave his head a shake.

"My father raised me to be perfect."

Aomine could see the immaterial weight being lifted from his captain.

"He wanted a perfect child. I was home schooled, and taught by my father. My mother loved me dearly, and she taught me lots of things too. But she loved _children_, and I was only one of them. But father told me that he would rather have one _perfect_ child than a bunch of _imperfect_ children. I tried and tried, I tried and tried, but I couldn't be perfect. But then I met..."

Akashi looked down. His voice had been shaky, but it was steady when he looked up once more.

"Akashi met me. And I've been with him ever since, taking care of him, and making sure he lives up to this image of perfect."

Aomine stared intently into this Akashi's eyes.

"So, there really is two Akashi's?"

Akashi stared at Aomine confused. "Two?"

"I thought so. I've been watching you, asking about you. Everyone doesn't seem to notice it. In fact, not even you seem to notice most of the time, Seijuro. Am I right?"

Akashi chuckled.

"When did you start to notice?"

"Not long after you became captain of the team. I could tell you were different on and off the court. But I didn't bother investigating, until recently."

"What sparked that?"

"A dream."

Akashi's eyes narrowed. He leaned against the cushion of the booth and Daiki sighed and signaled the waitress over.

"I'd like the bill please."

It was raining when the pair began walking out of the cafe. Daiki pulled his jacket up and over both their heads and led them through the rain to a small apartment building near the school.

"I'm sorry to have made you walk in the rain with me."

He unlocked the door but Akashi had stayed silent the whole time. Walking in the rain brought a feeling out in him, a calm feeling. It was refreshing to walk with the waters of heaven pouring down, just as they poured down that day you hung your baby brother. It was surprisingly peaceful to walk with Aomine, he made you feel safe, and renewed. The anxiety that always seemed to claw at his throat and make breathing difficult subsided for a bit. Even the memory of the awkward kiss in the gym didn't bother you as you walked with him, his arm around your shoulders.

"Why don't I tell you my story, Akashi. You can tell me what you think afterwards."

Akashi nodded, surrounded by a strange tranquility.

Aomine boiled water and placed a teabag in a cup in front of Akashi, before filling the cup.

"No tricks for you."

Akashi smirked.

"What's the story?"

His voice sounded small and light. He seemed tired. Aomine watched him sip his tea softly.

"A few weeks back, I had a funny dream. Normally this type of dream would have me sitting up, drenched in sweat, and probably screaming for my life. Many times my mother would come and knock at my door, just to ask me if it was another nightmare. She tried everything; penknives pinned to my pillow, dream catchers, even opened scissors."

Akashi's eyes glared at Aomine from across the table, but then they turned watery with tears.

"But the nightmares never left me. My grandmother used to say it was because I was a child of the full moon. But I never believed that. You see, this nightmare was different than all the rest. I woke up wishing I hadn't. I spent the rest of the day hoping it would return. I wanted it to continue. Do you know what it was I dreamt of?"

"Me." Akashi whispered. His eyes turned cold. "Cutting you open."

"I thought you'd know." Aomine smirked. "Yes. I dreamt that I had died and you got to autopsy me."

"And you weren't afraid?"

"Strangely, no. I watched you closely that day, hoping that you would drop a hint, a sign that you sent me that dream. But you seemed ever so normal. You went about your routine. And that night, the dream came back. It came back for a while, but later and later every night. I began losing sleep to just lie awake and think of you. And then, one night, some time ago, I felt it."

"Felt it?"

"I felt you. Here."

Aomine lifted his hand and put it against his heart.

"It felt so good, so warm, that I thought more of the idea. I, I began infatuated with it. It was a pleasure beyond pleasures. But I couldn't tell anyone. It wasn't like how I liked Ryouta. It was stronger, and forbidden."

"So then you noticed me?"

Akashi placed his cup down and leaned against the table. Aomine noticed he was struggling against sleep to continue the conversation.

"He feels safe with you."

"So whom do I court?" Aomine chuckled.

He made his way around the table and scooped up Akashi in his arms.

"Do forgive my boldness. I've dreamt of this for a long time."

Akashi sighed.

"I don't mind." he murmured.

Aomine walked over to the couch and set Akashi down in his lap.

"So, there really is two of you."

Aomine sounded amazed that his guess had been right.

Akashi smirked. It had been a long time since anyone held him this way. So long that he had forgotten just how nice it felt.

"Would you let him cut you open?"

Aomine thought for a minute.

"If I had already died, sure Akashi."

Akashi shook his head lightly.

'He doesn't seem to mind you.'

'Yes. You feel safe.' And you do.

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Not one bit."

"You don't care that I killed someone?"

"No."

"And you don't care that there's two Akashi's?"

"Not at all. One's not a ghost, is he?"

"No."

"Then no."

Akashi shifted his position, turning so he could lay his head against a pillow on the couch.

"Akashi?"

"Yes, Aomine?"

Aomine curled over him to press his lips lightly against Akashi's.

"I think you are perfect just the way you are."


End file.
